Fine things (4 page)

Her name was Isabelle Martin and she was twenty-four years old. She had grown up in the south of France and gone to Paris at eighteen to work for Saint Laurent and then Givenchy She was absolutely tops, and she had been a huge success in Paris. It was no surprise when she had been asked to come to the States and had done extremely well in New York for the past four years. He couldn't imagine why they hadn't met before.

“Usually I do only photography, Monsieur Fine.” She had an accent that enchanted him. “But for your show …” She smiled in a way that melted the seat of his pants and he would have done anything for her. And suddenly he remembered her. He had seen her on the cover of
Vogue
more than once, and
Bazaar
and
Women's Wear
…she just looked very different in real life, more beautiful actually. It was rare for models to cross over between runway modeling and photography, but she was skilled at both, and she had done beautifully in their show and he congratulated her lavishly.

“You were marvelous, Miss …uh …” His mind suddenly went blank and she smiled at him again.

“Isabelle.” He thought he would die just looking at her, and he took her to dinner that night at La Caravelle. Everyone in the room turned to look at her. And they went dancing afterwards at “Raffles” and Bernie never wanted to go home again. He never wanted to give her up, to let her out of his arms. He had never met anyone like her before, he had never been as swept off his feet by anyone. And the armor he had built after Sheila walked out of his life melted at her hands. Her hair was so blond it was almost white, and more extraordinary, it was natural. He thought her the most beautiful creature on earth, and it would have been difficult for anyone to disagree with him.

They had an enchanted summer in East Hampton that year. He had rented a small house, and she spent every weekend with him. When she had arrived in the U.S. she had immediately become involved with a well-known fashion photographer and after two years she had left him for a real-estate mogul. But all men seemed to fade from her life when Bernie appeared. It seemed like a magical time to him as he took her with him everywhere, showing her off, being photographed, dancing till dawn. It all seemed very jet set, and he laughed when he took his mother to lunch, and she leveled her most motherly gaze at him.

“Don't you think she's a little rich for your blood?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that she reeks of 'jet set,' and when all is said and done, how do you fit in, Bernie?”

“You're never a hero in your own home town, isn't that what they say? I can't say it's very flattering though.” He was admiring his mother's navy blue Dior suit. He had bought it for her the last time he was abroad and it looked lovely on her. But he didn't particularly want to discuss Isabelle with her. He hadn't taken her home to meet his parents, and he wasn't planning to. The two worlds would never have met successfully, although he knew that his father would have loved seeing her. Any man would have. She was spectacular.

“What's she like?” His mother wouldn't let go, as usual.

“She's a nice girl, Mom.”

His mother smiled at him. “Somehow that doesn't seem the right description for her. She's certainly beautiful.” She saw her photographs everywhere, and she told all her friends. At the hairdresser she showed everyone “that girl …no, the one on the cover …she goes out with my son …” “Are you in love with her?” She was never afraid to ask what she wanted to know, but Bernie quailed when he heard the words. He wasn't ready for that, although he was crazy about her, but he still remembered all too well his foolishness when he was in Michigan …the engagement ring he had given Sheila on Valentine's Day, that she had thrown back at him …the wedding plans he had made …the day she walked out of his life, carrying her duffel bag and his heart. He never wanted to be in the same position again, and he had guarded himself carefully. But not from Isabelle Martin.

“We're good friends.” It was all he could think of to say, and his mother stared at him.

“I hope it's more than that.” She looked horrified, as though she suddenly suspected him of being a homosexual, and all he could do was laugh at her.

“It is, okay? It's more than that…but nobody is getting married. All right? Satisfied? Now, what do you want for lunch?” He ordered steak and she ordered filet of sole and she pressed him about everything he was doing for the store. They were almost friends now, and he saw his parents less than he had when he first came back to New York. He didn't have much time, particularly with the arrival of Isabelle in his life.

He took her to Europe with him when he went on business that fall and they made a sensation everywhere they went. They were inseparable, and just before Christmas she moved in with him, and Bernie finally had to give in and take her to Scarsdale, much as he dreaded it. She was perfectly pleasant to his parents, although she didn't gush over them, and she made it clear to him that she wasn't interested in seeing a lot of them.

“We have so little time alone …” She pouted so perfectly, and he loved making love to her. She was the most exquisite woman he had ever seen, and sometimes he just stood staring at her as she put her makeup on or dried her hair or got out of the shower, or walked in the door carrying her portfolio. Somehow she made one want to freeze-frame and just stand there gazing at her.

His mother had even been subdued when they met. Isabelle had a way of making one feel very small, standing next to her, except Bernie, who had never felt more of a man with anyone. Her sexual prowess was remarkable, and their relationship was based on passion more than love. They made love almost everywhere, the bathtub, the shower, the floor, the back of his car one Sunday afternoon when they took a drive to Connecticut. They almost did it in the elevator once, and then came to their senses as they approached their floor and knew the doors were about to open. It was as though they couldn't stop, and he could never get quite enough of her. For that reason, he took her to France again in the spring, and then back out to East Hampton again, but this time they saw more people than they had before, and there was a movie producer who snagged her eye one night at a party on the beach at Quogue, and the next day Bernie couldn't find her anywhere. He found her on a yacht, moored nearby, making love to the producer from Hollywood on the deck, as Bernie stood for an instant staring at them, and then hurried away with tears in his eyes, realizing something he had hidden from for a long time. She wasn't just a great lay and a beautiful girl, she was the woman he loved, and losing her was going to hurt him.

She apologized when she got back to their house, but it wasn't for several hours. She and the producer had talked for a long time afterwards, about her goals, what she wanted out of her life, and what her relationship with Bernie meant, what he offered her. The producer had been fascinated by her and had told her as much. And when she got back, she tried to tell Bernie what she felt, much to his dismay.

“I can't live in a cage for the rest of my life, Bernard … I must be free to fly where I need to be.” He had heard it all before, in another life, with combat boots and a duffel bag, instead of a Pucci dress and Chanel shoes, and a Louis Vuitton suitcase standing open in the next room.

“I take it I represent a cage to you?” His eyes were cold as he looked at her. He wasn't going to tolerate her sleeping with someone else. It was as simple as that, and he wondered if she had done it before, and with whom.

“You are not a cage,
rnon amour
, but a very fine man. But this life of pretending to be married …one can only do this for so long …” For them it had been eight months since she had moved in with him, hardly an eternity.

“I think I've misunderstood our relationship, Isabelle.”

She nodded at him, looking even more beautiful, and for an instant he hated her. “I think you have, Bernard.” And then, the knife to his heart. “I want to go to California for a while.” She was totally candid with him. “Dick says he can arrange a screen test at a studio”—she spoke with an accent that melted his heart—“and I would like very much to do a film there with him.”

“I see.” He lit a cigarette although he seldom smoked. “You've never mentioned that before.” But it made sense. It was a shame not to put that face on film. Magazine covers weren't enough for her.

“I didn't think it was important to tell you that.”

“Or was it that you wanted what you could get out of Wolffs first?” It was the nastiest thing he had said and he was ashamed of himself. She didn't need him, and actually he was sorry about that. “I'm sorry, Isabelle …” He walked across the room and stood looking at her through the smoke. “Don't do anything hasty yet.” He wanted to beg but she was tougher than that. She had already made up her mind.

“I'm going to Los Angeles next week.”

He nodded and strode back across the room, looking out at the sea, and then he turned to smile at her bitterly. “There must be something magical about the place. They all seem to head west eventually.” He was thinking of Sheila again. He had told Isabelle about her a long time before. “Maybe I should go out there too sometime.”

Isabelle smiled. “You belong in New York, Bernard. You are everything vital and exciting and alive that is happening here.”

His voice was sad when he answered her. “But that doesn't seem to be enough for you.”

Her eyes met his with regret. “It is not that… it is not you … if I wanted someone serious … if I wanted to be married … I would want you very much.”

“I never suggested that.” But they both knew he would have in time. He was that kind of man, and he was almost sorry he was as he looked at her. He wanted to be racier, more decadent… to be able to put her in films himself.

“I just don't see myself staying here, Bernard.” She saw herself as a movie star and she left with the producer she had met exactly when she said she would. She left with him three days after she came home from East Hampton with Bernard. She packed all her things, more neatly than Sheila had, and she took all the gorgeous clothes Bernie had given her. She packed them in her Louis Vuitton bags and left him a note that afternoon. She even packed the four thousand dollars in cash he kept hidden in his desk drawer. She called it a “little loan,” and was sure he would “understand.” She had her screen test, and exactly a year later she appeared in a film. And by then, Bernie didn't give a damn. He was a hardened case. There were models and secretaries and executives. He met women in Rome, there was a very pretty stewardess in Milan, an artist, a socialite …but there was no one he gave a damn about, and he wondered if it would ever happen to him again. He still felt like a damn fool when someone mentioned her. She never sent the money back, of course, or the Piaget watch he'd discovered was gone long afterwards. She never even sent a Christmas card. She had used him and moved on to someone else, just as there had been others before him. And in Hollywood she did exactly the same, disposing of the producer who had gotten her her first film and turning him in for a bigger one, and a better part. Isabelle Martin would go far, there was no doubt of that, and his parents knew the subject was taboo with him. They never mentioned her to him again, after one inappropriate remark that sent him out of the house in Scarsdale in blind fury. He didn't come back for two months and his mother was frightened by what she had seen in him. The subject was closed permanently after that.

And a year and a half after she left, he was back in control of his life again. There were more women on his calendar than he could handle almost, business was booming, the store was in fine shape, and when he had woken up to see the blizzard that morning, he had decided to go in anyway. He had a lot of work to do, and he wanted to talk to Paul Berman about the store's summer plans. He had some exciting things in mind, and as he stepped off the bus at Lexington and Sixty-third, wearing a heavy English overcoat and a Russian fur cap, he walked into the store with his head bent against the wind, and then looked up at the store with pride. He was married to Wolffs, and he didn't mind a bit. She was a great old broad, and he was a success in every way. He had a lot to be thankful for, as he pressed the button for the eighth floor and shook the snow off his coat.

“Morning, Mr. Fine,” a voice said as the door closed, and he smiled. He closed his eyes for an instant before the doors opened again, thinking of all the work he had to do that day, and what he wanted to say to Paul. But he was in no way prepared for what Paul Berman was going to say to him later that morning.

Chapter 2

“Hell of a day.” Paul Berman glanced out his window at the snow still swirling outside, and knew he'd have to spend another night in town. There was no way he'd get back to Connecticut. He had spent the night before at the Pierre, and had promised his wife he wouldn't even attempt to come home in the snow. “Is there anyone in the store?” He was always amazed at the volume of their business in horrendous weather conditions. People always found a way to spend money.

Bernie nodded at him.

“Surprisingly, quite a few. And we set up two stations serving mugs of tea, coffee, and hot chocolate. It's a nice touch, whoever thought that one up. They deserve a reward for coming out in weather like this.”

“Actually, they're smart. It's a nice way to shop, with hardly anyone in the store. I prefer it myself.” The two men exchanged a smile. They had been friends for twelve years, and Bernard never lost sight of the fact that Paul had really given him his career. He had encouraged him to go to business school, and opened countless doors at Wolffs to him. More than that, he had trusted him, and given him a vote of confidence at times when no one else would have dared attempt some of Bernie's schemes, and it was no secret that, with no sons of his own, he had been grooming Bernie to be number one for years. He offered Bernie a cigar as the younger man waited to hear what he had to say. “How do you feel about the store these days?”

It was a good day for one of their talks, and Bernie smiled at him. They chatted informally like this from time to time, and their impromptu talks never failed to give birth to some marvelous ideas for Wolffs. The decision to hire a new fashion director for the store had come from their last session like this, and she was doing a fabulous job for them. They had stolen her from Saks. “I think everything is pretty much in control. Don't you, Paul?”

The older man nodded his head, not quite sure how to begin, but he had to start somewhere, he told himself. “I do. Which is why the board and I feel we can afford a somewhat unusual move.”

“Oh?” Had someone taken Bernie's pulse just then, they would have felt it escalate. Paul Berman never mentioned the board unless something pretty serious was going on.

“You know we'll be opening the San Francisco store in June.” It was still five months away and construction was in full swing. Paul and Bernie had already gone out several times and everything seemed to be moving on schedule, for the moment at least. “And we just haven't been able to come up with anyone to head the store.”

Bernie heaved a silent sigh of relief. For a moment he had thought something was going to happen to him. But he knew how important Paul felt the San Francisco market was. There was a lot of money there, and women bought high fashion as though it were pretzels being sold on the street. It was definitely time for Wolffs to get a share of that. They were well entrenched in Los Angeles, and they all agreed it was time to move north. “I keep thinking that Jane Wilson would be fabulous, but I don't think she'd leave New York.”

Paul Berman frowned. This was going to be even harder than he thought. “I don't think she'd be right. She's not strong enough. And a new store needs someone powerful, someone in control, someone who thinks on their feet and has innovative ideas. She's better suited to what's happening here.”

“Which leaves us back where we started again. What about hiring someone from outside the store? Maybe even someone from another store?”

It was time to move in for the kill. There was no avoiding it. Paul looked him squarely in the eye. “We want you, Bernard.” Their eyes met and Bernie blanched. He couldn't be serious. But the look on his face …my God … he was. But he had done his time. Three years in Chicago was enough. Wasn't it?

“Paul, I can't… I couldn't…San Francisco?” He looked genuinely shocked. “Why me?”

“Because you have all of the qualities I just described, and we need you out there. No matter how hard we look, we'll never find anyone as good as you are, and that store is important to us. You know it yourself. There's a tremendous market out there, but a touchy one, high class, high fashion, high style, and if we open our doors wrong, we'll never recover from it. Bernie”—Paul looked at him pleadingly— “you've got to help us out.” He looked at him piercingly and Bernie sank back in his chair.

“But, Paul …
San Francisco?
…What about my job here?” He hated to leave New York again, he was so happy where he was, doing what he did. It was really a hardship leaving now, although he didn't want to let Paul down.

“You can fly back and forth. And I can pitch in for you here. Where we need you is there.”

“For how long?”

“A year. Maybe two.” Maybe more.

Bernie was afraid of that. “That's what you said when I went to Chicago, Paul. Only I was younger then …I've earned my stripes now. I don't want to live in the boondocks again. I've been out there. I know what it's like. It's a pretty town, but it's provincial as hell.”

“So go to Los Angeles to play. Do whatever you have to do to survive out there. But please … I wouldn't ask you to do it if we had any other choice, but we just don't have anyone else. And I've got to get someone out there fast, before things start going wrong for us. Someone has got to supervise the last of the construction, make sure everything is running smoothly for the opening, set the tone of the advertising, check the promotion …” He waved an impatient hand. “I don't need to tell you what needs to be done. It's an enormous responsibility, Bernard. It's a brand-new store, and the finest one we have, aside from New York.” In a way, it was a feather in his cap, but it was one he didn't want. Not at all.

He stood up with a quiet sigh. It hadn't been such a great morning after all, and he was almost sorry he had come in now, even though it would have been handed to him eventually anyway. There was no avoiding it once Paul made up his mind, and it wouldn't be easy talking him out of it now. “I'll have to give it some thought.”

“Do that.” Their eyes met and held again. And Paul was afraid of what he saw this time.

“Maybe if I had a firm commitment that it wouldn't be for more than a year, I could live with it.” He smiled ruefully, but Paul couldn't promise him that. If the store wasn't ready to be handed over yet, then Bernard couldn't leave that soon, and it was unlikely he could, they both knew. It would take two to three years of tender loving care to get a new store settled anywhere, and Bernie just wasn't willing to commit to that long. And San Francisco didn't look all that great to him.

Paul Berman stood up and looked at him. “You give it some thought. But I want you to know my bottom line.” He wasn't going to jeopardize losing Bernie, no matter what the board said. “I don't want to lose you, Bernard.” And it was obvious that he meant every word as Bernie smiled fondly at him.

“And my bottom line is that I don't want to let you down.”

“Then we'll both make the right decision, whatever it is.” Paul Berman stretched a hand out to Bernard and they shook hands. “Give it some very serious thought.”

“You know I will.” And he sat alone in his office after that, with the door closed, staring out at the snow, feeling as though he had been hit by a truck. He couldn't even imagine living in San Francisco now. He loved his life in New York. It would be like starting all over again, and he didn't look forward to the prospect of opening a new branch store, no matter how elite and elaborate it was. It still wasn't New York. Even with the blizzards and the filth and the intolerable heat of July, he loved it here, and the pretty little postcard town by the bay had no lure for him. It never had. He thought of Sheila with a grim smile. It was more her style than his, and he wondered if he would have to buy his own combat boots to move out there. The whole thought of it depressed him horribly, and he sounded it when his mother called.

“What's wrong, Bernard?”

“Nothing, Mom. It's just been a long day.”

“Are you sick?”

He closed his eyes, trying to sound cheerful for her. “No. I'm fine. How are you and Dad?”

“Depressed. Mrs. Goodman died. Remember her? She used to bake cookies for you when you were a little boy.” She had already been ancient then, and that was thirty years ago. It was hardly surprising that she had finally died, but his mother loved reporting things like that. And now she moved back onto him. “So what's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong, Mom. I told you. I'm fine.”

“You don't sound fine. You sound tired and depressed.”

“I had a long day.” He said it through clenched teeth …and they're moving me to Siberia again…. “Never mind. Are we still on for dinner for your anniversary next week? Where do you want to go?”

“I don't know. Your father thought you should come here.” He knew that was a lie. His father loved to go out. He found it refreshing after the intensity of the work he did. It was his mother who always thought he should come home, as though to prove something to him.

“How about '21'? Would you like that? Or something French?
Cote Basque …Grenouille?
…”

“All right.” She sounded resigned. “‘21.’”

“Great. Why don't you come to my place first for a drink, at seven o'clock? And then we'll have dinner at eight.”

“Are you bringing a girl?” She sounded pained, as though it were something he did all the time, although the truth was they had met none of his lady friends since Isabelle. None of them had lasted long enough to bother with.

“Why should I bring a girl?”

“Why wouldn't you? You never introduce us to your friends. Are you ashamed of us?”

He almost groaned into the phone. “Of course not, Mom. Look, I've got to go. I'll see you next week. Seven o'clock, my place.” But he knew that repeating it wouldn't keep her from calling four more times just to make sure they were still on, that he hadn't changed the plans, that the reservation had been made, that he didn't want to bring a girl. “Give Dad my love.”

“Call him sometime …You never call anymore …” She sounded like one of those jokes, and he smiled to himself as he hung up, wondering if he would be like her one day if he ever had kids, not that there seemed to be a danger of that anyway. There had been a girl the year before who had thought she was pregnant for several days, and for a moment he had considered letting her have the child, just so that he'd have a baby after all. But it turned out she'd been wrong anyway, and they were both relieved. But it had been an interesting thought for a day or two. He didn't want children desperately anyway. He was too involved in his career, and it always seemed a shame to him not to have a baby born of love. He was still idealistic about that, and there was certainly no likely candidate at the moment to fill that bill. He sat staring at the snow, thinking of what it would be like to give up his entire social life, to stop seeing all his favorite girls. It almost made him want to cry as he left the office that night, on a night that was as cold and clear as an icy crystal bell. He didn't try to catch a bus this time, and the wind had finally died down. He walked straight to Madison Avenue, and then walked uptown, glancing at the shops as he strode past rapidly. It wasn't snowing anymore, and it looked like a fairyland, as a few people skied past, and children threw snowballs. There hadn't even been any rush hour traffic to mess it all up, and he felt better as he walked into his house and rode the elevator upstairs. It was a hideous thought leaving New York now. He couldn't even imagine it. But he couldn't think of a way out. Unless he quit, and he didn't want to do that. There was no way out for him, he realized, as his heart seemed to fall against his ribs. No way out at all for him.